


The tale of the confessional

by RipperBlackstaff



Series: 600 followers promptathon [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The Tournament (2009)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Confessional, F/M, Masturbation, Priest Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3702495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RipperBlackstaff/pseuds/RipperBlackstaff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt for the 600th followers promptathon on tumblr : </p><p>Macelle : He watches her pray but he can’t help the impure thoughts</p>
            </blockquote>





	The tale of the confessional

Father Joseph MacAvoy had never been a well liked man in his community. In a way, he understood the behaviour of his parishionners. He was not a good priest. Those gave the example of a virtuous life, spent in contemplation of their unwavering faith.  They were eloquent, writing the appropriate sermons, and loved mankind equally. As it stood, Father Joseph was a horrendous priest, for he was drunk most of his time. Speaking at the altar was often a struggle, both for the ones who listened and for him. His church was thus nearly empty, most all the time. He also loved someone more than God Himself.   
  
It could have been something innocent, a child he favoured teaching the ways of God, a male friend with whom he could have a beer and a hot dog while watching football. But no. Father MacAvoy's inclinations had to go the way of the Devil : he fell in love.  
  
For any man, this event would have been the beginning of a courting but for a priest, it meant hellfire and sleepless nights.  He didn't even fall in love with an unavailable woman, he did with Mrs. Belle Gold, widow of Mr. Gold, a very powerful solicitor. She had inherited a vast array of properties, money, and no need to work until her own death. She had a generous heart and instead of living the life of a rich spoiled woman, she had chosen to help the sisters of Middlesborough, the local convent.  
  
He saw her on Sundays at mass, as the convent was in his neighbourhood. Joseph knew she was praying for the soul of her late husband. She often did, mostly at the convent, where Sister Marie Blue reigned, but sometimes, he found her in his little church.  
  
He had awoken in his cluttered office, near a puddle of his own vomit. His head pounded like a Chinese gong hit repeatedly by a sadist. It was agony bursting, echoing inside his skull. He realised, as he crawled up onto a chair that those explosions were synced to his heartbeats.  
  
When he straightened, his guts gave a painful lurch and he moaned, trying not to puke again.   
"Oh fuck..."  
  
He was thankful the lights were off. He wasn't sure he could have stood them. He opened the drawer of his desk and took out a flask of cheap whisky. He drank from it, not bothering with a glass. It washed out the taste of dead rat in his mouth and settled the hunger in his belly.   
  
Father Joseph needed a shower. It would help him feel human again. His body protested wildly when he got up. The tips of his hair hurt him when he turned his head to locate his coat. When he did, he put it on, trying not to notice how stained his white collar was in the mirror by the door. He saw his face, though, and it gave him pause. Oh God, he looked horrible. Underfed, overdrunk, bloodshot eyes encased in dark circles... His hair was too long and he had not shaved in days. It was time to go pay a visit to the local barber, Barney Thomson, as he didn't trust himself to hold a blade to his face.   
  
He shook his head and left his office.   
  
The priest had to go though the church to leave the building. His door opened into the north aisle, hidden from the seats by the columns. It allowed him not to disturb his parishioners when they prayed but it was rare. His church was quite deserted these days, because of him. How could the shepherd lead the sheeps when he was the black sheep ?  
  
Yet, today, someone was kneeling on the steps of the altar, hands joined in prayer, the perfect stance of the repentance. The figure left no doubt as to the gender, it was a woman.  
  
Father MacAvoy smiled, glad there was a soul able to find solace within his wretched walls. He sneaked, both wanting to leave her with God and not being seen in such a state of disarray. He turned around at midway down the aisle out of curiosity. Who was this woman ? He froze. The angle between the columns didn't allow him to see before, but now, the brownish mane flowing down her back was unmistakable.  
"Belle Gold..." he whispered under his breath.   
  
His little whisper seemed a scream to his ears and it echoed through the church. Mrs. Gold lifted her head and looked around. Her voice echoed in the empty building. "Father ?"   
  
He stepped backward, trying to get smaller. She couldn't see him now, not when he was a sorry excuse of himself. He stumbled, and before he knew it, he passed through a heavy wool veil and his back hit a wooden wall with a thud. He had walked into the confessional. He gasped and slapped his hands onto his mouth to stop any sounds from coming out.   
  
After a silence, she added, “Robert ?”  
  
The name of her dead husband. Oh God. Joseph froze again, becoming as still as the pathetic wooden statue of Virgin Mary at the end of the aisle. After a moment, the woman spoke again, "Oh... I must have dreamed."  
  
The Father didn't move for as long as he could but his heart beat so hard and so fast she could probably hear it. When no angry Belle tore off the curtain of the confessional to expose him, he relaxed and peeked by the ajar curtain.   
  
Belle Gold was praying again.   
  
He broke up a sweat, wondering what the fuck he was doing.   
  
She was on his knees, head bowed. He couldn't see her face from the confessional but thanks to her mesmerizing shirt skirt, he could see her ankles and her calves. The semi see-through blouse displayed the curves of her back and the band of the white bra.  
  
He wheezed, stifling the noise as best as he could with the palm of his hands again. He felt weird between the legs, like a little ache bordering on anticipation. His trousers were tented. What the actual fuck ? How was it even possible with his hungover ?   
  
He would have felt proud of his body's abilities, had he not remembered that he wasn't supposed to do things like that. However, Belle Gold was so beautiful and he was so weak. He was still a human waste and she was god-set. Maybe she had been sent here to guide him. But not today. Today, he just needed to bask in her beauty. It might be the only chance of his life where he could contemplate her beauty without having to guard himself.   
  
Her ankles drove him crazy and before he knew it, a wildfire spread through his veins and he was palming his groin. He was hit by an unexpected relief, and the only reason why he didn't moan was because he still had his hand upon his mouth. He started to pant, biting his palm.  
  
Despite his current situation, Father MacAvoy was quite naïve. He knew sexual mechanism but never before had he thought about Belle Gold in less than a devoted way. It was changing. She was… intoxicating, leading him away from the right path, and in his deepest core, he knew that if Belle… Yes, he called her Belle in his dreams… If Belle were to show the least sign of interest in him, he would kneel at her feet to celebrate their love.  
  
He palmed himself, rubbing his hardness, his eyes fixated on her. A strange hunger, of the kind he had never had before, appeared between his belly button and his crotch.   
  
Before he knew what he was doing, he opened his belt and had his hand inside his black slacks, finding his hard length. Pleasure blinded him and he realised what he was doing. He let go of himself, then he… looked down at it. His head pounded less, as he was distracted by his physical ailments. He glanced at Belle, swallowed, licked his lips. Could he..? Should he..? No, he shouldn’t. But he could. Oh yes, he could. Belle didn’t know he was there, so MacAvoy could take advantage of this unique opportunity. It’s not as if his love could ever allow him to. Yes… He could.   
  
He took himself in hand again, pumping once, twice, biting his fist. He moaned, trying to stifle it, not quite managing it. The muscles of his butt were already so tense it hurt him. He was unnaturally warm, as if his inside were on fire. He had troubles breathing as if his chest couldn’t expand properly.   
  
He worked his cock steadily, millennium-old instincts taking over. His veins were full of molten lava and all this heat was converging toward the tip of his prick. His hand was constricted inside his pants, he couldn’t move properly. Joseph had never done this before and he loved it already. It was a selfish act, but it was so pleasant…  
  
He lowered his trousers and boxers just under his buttocks before starting to pleasure himself again. His moves were awkward, unused to this activity. He rubbed himself fast, focusing on Belle. He leaned against the wooden wall, feasting on the sight of the praying woman. Joseph panted loud, biting himself harder not to be too loud.   
  
A flow of fire engulfed the priest, and he released it in a staggering wave of pleasure. It knocked him off his feet, sprawling onto the bench, not realising what had happened. His slacked jaw was hanging again his chest and he didn’t move until he caught his breath. His semen was running down on the drape, being absorbed by the fibres of the cloth. From now on, he would always see the white stains of his shame into the curtain during confession.  
  
He tucked himself in, getting up once more. He stole a glance by the slit between the wall and the drapery. Belle was gone and he was alone with his hungover and his mortifying feelings.


End file.
